


honey don't feed me (i will come back)

by harsa (dearestwinter)



Series: Ragnarssons the Bikings [5]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother/Brother Incest, Choking, Jealous Ivar, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest, fuck or die of blue balls for your bro, no beta read we die like my excitement for 6b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearestwinter/pseuds/harsa
Summary: Ivar follows Sigurd into the woods.//Or: sex pollen trope with brotherly feelings.
Relationships: Ivar & Sigurd (Vikings), Ivar/Margrethe (mentioned), Ivar/Sigurd (Vikings), Sigurd (Vikings)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Ragnarssons the Bikings [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615831
Kudos: 22





	honey don't feed me (i will come back)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back with a fic that no one asked for. this is a continuation of [made from broken molds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407871). I suggest you read that fic first for any references in this one :)
> 
> if y'all could drop a comment about what u think of this, i would appreciate it dearly.
> 
> title from hozier's [it will come back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrghhuQaack) aka one of my favorite songs in the world.

The wind howls, rustling the forest’s leaves as Ivar makes the slow walk through it. The torch in his hand gutters, forming dancing shadows on the tree trunks. It’s a relatively warm summer night, perhaps too warm for the layers of clothes he’s wearing and his face’s proximity to the fire, but he doesn’t mind. Soon autumn will come, and with it the bitter cold and ankle-high snows that will make this walk even more difficult for himself and his crutches.

He thinks it is too convenient that the impulse to do this manifested now, at summer’s near end. Ivar had given little thought to what had happened in the spring with Sigurd. He could admit that he had become obsessed to learn about his brother’s nocturnal activities, and as with every obsession he’s ever had, Ivar couldn’t help but go to any lengths to find out everything he could about it and pick it apart until the obsession passed. He had coaxed a boy into doing his dirty work for him, and he had been rewarded for his perseverance by achieving his life-long goal of knowing Sigurd’s deepest secrets. That should have been enough for Ivar to move on with his life, yet here he is.

He arrives just in time to see the hut’s door open, and Sigurd stepping out into the pre-dawn air. Ivar raises an eyebrow when another smaller and leaner figure joins him outside. Dark curls frame a pale soft-featured face with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes watching Sigurd. The boy smiles at Ivar’s brother, and throws his arms around Sigurd’s shoulders, standing on his tip-toes to press a chaste kiss on his mouth. When they part, Ivar watches as Sigurd’s lips move but he’s too far away for Ivar to make out what he’s saying. When the boy laughs and gives Sigurd a playful shove, however, Ivar grits his teeth and his nails rake the tree trunk he’s using for support.

Sigurd is wearing a dark brown bearskin over his shoulders, but Ivar can see a peak of his blue tunic when his brother approaches, oblivious to the figure observing him from behind a big oak tree. Ivar hasn’t walked all this way in the middle of night only to let Sigurd walk past him unbothered, however. When the latter is but a few feet away from Ivar’s hiding place, he steps out of it, putting himself on his brother’s way, grinning sharply.

Sigurd stops in his tracks, eyes wide as saucers in surprise, his hand immediately straying for the dagger at his hip. When he sees it’s Ivar, a scowl forms on his face, but the hand doesn’t move, gripping the handle until his knuckles turn white.

“What are you doing here, Boneless?” he asks, any trace of nervousness suppressed by the anger of being caught on the way back from a fuck with his male lover.

“Be grateful I won’t ask what _you_ are doing here, brother,” Ivar answers. “But if you truly must know, I came here to measure your whore up, so don’t go flattering yourself.”

Sigurd’s nostrils flare at this. “Don’t call Gils a whore.”

“What am I to call him, when he is exactly _that_ , Sigurd?”

His brother takes one venom-filled look at him, spits on the ground at Ivar’s feet, and walks into the forest. Ivar rolls his eyes; he hadn’t been lying, mostly. He did come to take a look at this Gils boy his brother has taken a fancy to, and is not impressed by what he’s seen so far. Ivar admits the boy is pretty, and could pass for a very flat-chested girl from a distance and only if you squint. But all in all, he is ordinary. Ivar guesses there must be _something_ about Gils that makes Sigurd come to his hut several nights a week, when he could get the same from any slave man or woman back at home. They wouldn’t refuse a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar has confirmed the truth of that with the rest of his brothers.

He is half-tempted to go back and find out _what_ that something is, even at risk of being beaten to death by Sigurd. Ivar is not afraid of his brother: very few people in Kattegat have equal or better aim with an axe than himself. Its weight is comforting, and he even has a coin or two to throw at the boy for the trouble of trying to please a cripple. Ivar swallows thickly at this thought, and keeps walking forward instead.

“I apologize, alright?” he says with a half-hearted roll of his eyes. 

Sigurd stops, head turning slowly at hearing those words coming out of Ivar’s mouth. _You shouldn’t look so surprised I’m able to apologize, brother._ He doesn’t voice that, though. Sigurd wouldn’t believe him, he never has.

Ivar had put out his torch when he had taken his place behind the tree, so they have no other light to illuminate the forest ground except that of the moon, filtering through the leaves crowning the treetops. Despite that, the snake coiling in Sigurd’s eye is visible as he comes closer until he’s a few feet away from Ivar. His tousled hair looks silver under the moonlight.

“Just stay away from this place, Ivar, and from him.” It’s not a threat, there’s not enough strength behind those words. There’s no anger in Sigurd’s eyes either. Ivar feels puzzled; he could work with anger, it’s what he’s used to coming from his brother. This sounds more like a plea, though.

Ivar doesn’t reply, and neither does Sigurd wait for one. As they make their way home, however, Ivar realizes that his brother has slowed down his steps so now they’re walking almost side by side. An owl hoots, perched on a branch right above them. Ivar has to make a double effort not to trip on a root with his cumbersome crutches, but when it eventually happens, Sigurd’s hand closes around his forearm, grounding him. The grip is not tight enough to leave a bruise, and it wouldn’t be even if Ivar were wearing lighter clothes, yet it lingers well after Sigurd lets go.

They are submerged in an oddly comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional chirping of crickets and the wind rustling the leaves on the floor. Before long, another sounds mingles with those two; the rushing of the stream that signals they’re not far from town now. They only need to follow it where it flows into the fjord. Even on a summer night, Ivar knows the water is bitingly cold, and he sees that a thin film of frost has blanketed the green grass growing among the rocks.

 _It’s a beautiful place,_ Ivar thinks. He almost regrets disturbing the peace with what he says next, “I will not come here again if that’s what you want.” He pauses, trying to find the right words. What is it that he wants to ask exactly? Does he even _want_ to know? There’s someone not far from here that makes Sigurd feel things that he could never feel with Ivar, his own brother. There’s someone that knows Sigurd in a way he could never know him, and who his brother feels the need to run to. Ivar wonders _when_ this stopped being a game he played with himself in his quest to keep his obsession from driving him mad, if it ever was a game to begin with.

“I do,” Sigurd says. He takes a seat on one of the biggest rocks when he realizes that Ivar has no intention to keep going. “Gils is not meant to get hurt from this.”

“Say what you mean, Sigurd,” Ivar snaps. If he’s mad at himself, or his brother for trying to deceive him, he doesn’t know. “You don’t want _me_ to hurt your precious toy.”

Sigurd clenches his fist. “He’s not a toy, Ivar!”

“Then _what_ is he?” They are raising their voices, but there’s no one around for a mile to listen anyway. “See, you don’t even have an answer for that,” Ivar continues when several seconds pass in an awkward silence.

 _You shouldn’t anger me so much, Boneless._ He remembers Sigurd’s words clearly, from the night when Ivar had finally acted on his obsession. He knew the warning had been true, and he knows it much more so now when Sigurd grabs him by his clothes and yanks Ivar closer to him until their faces are inches apart. He can’t help his nostrils to get a good whiff of his brother’s scent; honey, cloves, and the sharp musky smell of forest dew. But the smell of flowers on him is foreign, Ivar knows this as well as the palm of his hand. Faded from the trek back from the hut, but still _there._

Ivar knows rationally that this _shouldn’t_ bother him, yet something primal that he’s never known he had deep inside of him swims its way up to the surface. He wants that smell gone from his brother’s skin, and the urge to make that happen runs hot through his veins. He sees the snake growing in size, so close to himself, until only a sliver of green is visibly left in Sigurd’s right eye.

“Wait,” his brother says, brow creasing as he tilts his head to one side. His gaze fixes on the ground behind Ivar, so the latter cranes his head to take a look, but a rock is on the way from whatever Sigurd is seeing. He thinks he can see a flash of something purple peeking behind it. Ivar is correct in his guess when Sigurd releases him, and kneels by the rock to pluck a flower from where it’s rooted to the ground, surrounded by moss.

Ivar is too suspicious by half, which gives him an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach when Sigurd holds out the flower for him to inspect. It’s unnaturally bright, that’s what it is. For a second he thinks it’s because of the morning dew dotting the deep purple and dripping from it onto the ground, but on a second look, it almost seems like it’s _glowing._ The flower is the size of Sigurd’s palm, and in the hollow in the center, the anthers are crowned with yellow-green pollen.

The weirdest thing, though, is that Ivar can _smell_ it even from here. He has never been the kind to stop to smell the flowers, yet he can admit that this one’s sweet, in a way that’s almost cloying. Ivar grimaces in disgust, and hops to where Sigurd is standing to snatch the damned flower out of his hands. He has half a mind to throw it into the stream, when he notices the feeling in his stomach has changed somehow, giving way to something… pleasant.

When Ivar looks up into his brother’s face, he realizes that _both_ of Sigurd’s pupils are dilated, and he has a flush in his cheeks that he didn’t have only seconds ago.

“Ivar,” Sigurd breathes out in a whisper. Blood is rushing through Ivar’s body fast, making him feel too hot under his clothes. He feels sweat trickling down his back, and his throat is suddenly dry. He has no time to wonder what the fuck is going on when he notices Sigurd is standing in front of him, his hand cupping the back of Ivar’s neck. 

He doesn’t know who initiates the kiss really, but once they begin, they cannot seem to stop even if Ragnarok were hard on their heels. The hotness is too much for Ivar’s body to stand, so he fights to take off his clothes as he kisses Sigurd senseless. His crutches come in the way, though. He groans in annoyance, and his brother seems to take the hint because he unclasps them, almost ripping it off Ivar’s wrists, and throws them away. Ivar doesn’t care in this moment where they may land. He only cares to be pressed against Sigurd’s body, or he might die.

Sigurd’s mouth moves to his neck, sucking on a bruise there, and Ivar works to free himself of his furs, stepping back slightly to allow his brother to do the same. After a few moments he has to throw his arms around Sigurd’s shoulders and hold on for dear life to keep his crippled legs from giving out under himself, though. It’s uncomfortable and his calves begin to cramp from the strain of supporting his body, but luckily it doesn’t take long before Sigurd maneuvers him into lying on the cold wet ground. Even amidst the urge of whatever has possessed them into this situation, his brother is gentle. Ivar sees his face above himself, straddling his waist.

Sigurd’s beautiful green eyes are half-lidded and bright with something akin to _want._ Ivar knows that feeling, coursing through his own veins like molten fire. But he’s not too far gone to let himself be used like a bitch in heat, which he guesses it’s what’s on Sigurd’s mind due to the position Ivar is in. The latter’s arms have all the strength that his legs do not, so in the blink of an eye, Ivar rolls them over, so he’s on top of Sigurd now. His brother makes a grimace of pain as his back hits the ground forcefully, and tries to complain, but Ivar is not having any of it. 

He unlaces his brother’s breeches, readying himself to be done with whatever is happening between them (again), when he realizes something. There’s a _straining_ feeling inside his own breeches, which makes him frown for a moment in confusion before it dawns on him that he’s _hard. My mind must be playing tricks on me,_ Ivar thinks, but he knows that this is very real even before his hand strays down to palm himself.

He looks down into Sigurd’s face, and whatever thought was about to present itself in Ivar’s head flees at the sight. Is this what Gils sees every night that Sigurd comes to him? Because Ivar could understand. Under the moonlight, his brother’s features are softer than Ivar believes it’s fair, lips kissed red and swollen. The snake reappears, slithering in Sigurd’s eye, dark and enticing. Ivar is not even sure anymore if the fault lies solely on the damned flower, making him feel these kinds of things about his _brother._ He has felt them before, but had deluded himself that it had been a game. A game that Ivar had lost before he began to play.

The foreign smell on Sigurd, the smell of _Gils,_ assaults Ivar’s nose again as he leans down to whisper sweet nothings in Sigurd’s ear. There only seems to be two truths in the world that Ivar is certain of right now: he _needs_ Sigurd like he’s never needed anything before, and he needs the smell of another man on his brother’s skin gone _now._ The desire has gripped Ivar in its clutches, quieting that little voice inside his mind that tells him that going down this road again is too dangerous.

Ivar has never been afraid of danger, though.

Sigurd’s eyes follow the hand that travels to Ivar’s crotch, blond eyebrows raising as he huffs amusedly, “Do you plan to fuck me with that, little brother?”

In another time, Ivar is sure that Sigurd would follow that question with a mocking ‘can you even use it?’, but not now. Now the strange effect of the flower is speaking for his brother, putting words in his mouth that he would never otherwise think of saying to Ivar of all people. It hasn’t hit Ivar as hard as it had Sigurd, but still the former feels its effect albeit in a smaller dose, like getting drunk off a kiss.

Ivar smirks. “Turn over.”

He plans to use Sigurd’s lapse in judgement against him, everything else be damned. 

The sight of his brother doing exactly what he has ordered him gives Ivar a sudden rush that makes him sway in the spot. Oh, he could get used to this alright. Ivar feels his cock stir in his breeches at seeing Sigurd’s back, pale and dotted with little drops of dew. His muscles shift as he raises himself a little bit to unlace his own breeches, leaving them hanging loose off his hips for Ivar to do as he pleases. The latter, for his part, is seriously considering sacrificing something to the gods for granting him this gift.

Ivar runs a hand down Sigurd’s back, feeling the smooth of his skin and the valleys of his spine with his fingertips. Sigurd trembles under him, due to the chill of the air or the expectation of what is about to happen Ivar doesn’t care to know. He’s mesmerized by something as ordinary as another boy’s back.

“Look at you,” he whispers, placing both of his hands on Sigurd’s hips and caressing the flesh there. His mind goes back to that night at home, where he had given his brother a meagre handjob after Ivar had caught him returning from a visit to Gils. Much like tonight, except that this time he’s allowed to _touch._ He does more than that; he drinks in the sight like a thirsty man in the desert.

He palms himself through his breeches to get some pressure off, before pulling them down completely, doing the same with Sigurd’s. Ivar is so hard he feels like he will blow his load right now, before his clouded mind reminds him that it would be too embarrassing if he does, so he takes a deep breath to regain at least a little bit of control over his impulses.

“Are you going to watch me from back there until the sun comes up, Boneless?” Sigurd asks, voice the sweetest Ivar has ever heard it. Even his nickname is said almost _lovingly._

Ivar shakes his head, dispelling that thought out of his mind. It’s a slippery slope, one he doesn’t want to fall in. Sigurd is as hard as himself when Ivar wraps a hand over his cock from behind, pumping it leisurely. He doesn’t dare to touch himself, Sigurd’s low moans are more than enough to make the pool of heat in his lower belly even more pronounced, threatening to cut the fine thread of his self-control. Ivar leans his head on the conjuncture between Sigurd’s shoulder and neck, placing a kiss there and feeling as his brother squirms. The scent of Gils is fading, thank the gods. Not so the marks he had left on Sigurd’s skin. Ivar gives him new ones because he can.

“How badly do you need me to fuck you, Sigurd?” Ivar whispers in his ear, testing the waters. His brother only whimpers, shifting in his grip. Ivar’s fingers tighten around his hip bone, “I asked you a question. _Answer me._ ”

“I need you so bad,” Sigurd pants, his hand feeling on the ground for something. Ivar watches as his brother finds some furs discarded to one side, luckily his own, and fumbles around for a few moments, finally taking out a small glass vial. “Use this.”

Ivar takes it out of his hand, the clear liquid swirling inside of it. When he uncaps it and dips the tip of his fingers in it, feeling the oily substance makes him chuckle. _Not too far gone, then._ Ivar realizes he likes this better. If Sigurd’s mind is working clearly enough, he could have meant it when he said ‘I need you’ to Ivar, and not be only the flower talking.

From his failed experience with Margrethe, Ivar knows it’s uncomfortable as hell to go in dry. Still, just to fuck with his brother in a metaphorical sense, he says, “Ask me nicely, and I might use it.”

Sigurd sighs. “Fuck, Ivar… please.”

“As you wish, dearest brother.”

Ivar pours some oil on his fingers, and finally, _finally_ wraps them around his cock. The sensation is strange to say the least, but the pleasure of touching himself even just to lubricate himself overrides that. He groans, closing his eyes. This is a first for many things, but the prospect of being inside Sigurd soon makes him stop his movements, albeit a little bit reluctantly. He uses those same oiled fingers to enter his brother’s hole, only two though. Sigurd lets out a muffled moan, biting his lower lip. Ivar preps him as he would a girl, as his brothers had advised him to prep Margrethe that night. Sigurd is _nothing_ like her, however, and something warm courses through Ivar’s body at realizing that he means it in a good way.

When he deems Sigurd ready, Ivar withdraws his fingers to replace them with the red tip of his cock. He groans again as he sinks himself in that tight space, willing his own body to obey his commands and not come too soon. His balls ache with the need to do so. Ivar kisses a trail on Sigurd’s back in favor of ignoring it, or that’s what he tries to convince himself of. In reality, he doesn’t wish to hurt his brother in any way so he hopes that he can distract Sigurd from the pain with his kisses. 

But hearing Sigurd’s now unrestricted moans as Ivar begins to move, slowly at first and then taking more speed, he guesses that pain is worlds away from what Sigurd is feeling at the moment. It gives Ivar the approval to dare to grip his brother’s hips tighter as he pounds into him, leaving rosy finger-shaped marks and half moons on the pale skin. It’s an itch Ivar is finally getting the chance to scratch, and he smiles.

The mirth is short-lived, however, as shock makes his heart skip a beat when he feels Sigurd squirming out from under him and making Ivar’s cock slip out of his hole. He had perhaps underestimated Sigurd’s strength, because the latter flips him on his back as easily as Ivar had done a while ago. He’s still hard as nails, though, and he could swear that he gets even harder when he sees Sigurd straddle his waist again and sink onto his cock all the way in one go.

The moan that comes out of Ivar’s mouth is filthy even to his own ears, but Sigurd doesn’t call him out for that. His brother is smiling down at him, shifting his hips ever so slowly for a while before he starts riding Ivar in earnest. _Tease._

None of them would know that this time before dawn is so cold with how much their conjoined bodies are sweating. Ivar takes a hand to Sigurd’s face, catching a strand of blond hair plastered to his brother’s flushed face and tucking it behind his ear. Sigurd grabs his wrist and pins it to the ground beside Ivar’s head. The latter rolls his eyes, but he forgets that he’s not calling the shots anymore when Sigurd leans down and buries his face in the crook of his neck, picking up the pace of his riding.

Feeling his warm breath and hearing his moans so close to his ear is driving Ivar insane. _You’re gonna be the death of me,_ he thinks, but he must have thought it out loud because Sigurd’s teeth catch his earlobe and whispers, “Good.”

Ivar is close. It scares him to know so, like the moment before taking a leap into unknown waters. The pressure is unbearable, the tightness of Sigurd’s insides rhythmically squeezing his cock is unbearable, but he doesn’t wish it to end. Ivar had never imagined he would be feeling like this in his lifetime, had thought himself and his cock a lost cause because of his crippled lower body, but here he is. He raises his hand even before he’s conscious of doing so, bringing it to Sigurd’s cock between their bodies. Ivar needs to thank _someone_ for this, and who better than his brother, riding his cock like he was born for it?

However, his hand is intercepted on the way by Sigurd’s. When Ivar opens his eyes, he’s encountered by two green slivers, one obscured by that snake who has driven him to the end of his limits and then some. Ivar watches curiously as Sigurd takes both of his hands to his own neck, placing Ivar’s fingers around the delicate part and putting his own hands on top.

“Squeeze,” Sigurd tells him.

Ivar’s breath catches in his own throat. He’s brought back to the night when he almost choked Sigurd to death with those same hands. He hadn’t meant for it, yet he had gone too far, even for himself. He had almost watched the life leave Sigurd’s eyes, and now he’s asked to do so _again?_ A bitter taste makes itself known in Ivar’s mouth, but when he looks up, Sigurd’s gaze is pleading and Ivar understands.

His brother is _trusting_ him not to go too far, and not to make the same mistakes as the last time.

Ivar finally nods at the request, and allows his fingers to tighten slightly around Sigurd’s throat. He feels the pulse quicken, and something vibrates inside when Sigurd groans. The choked sound makes Ivar’s own heart beat faster, but this time there’s no fear of causing harm. He bucks his hips, speeding the process now that he feels both of them are close. Molten fire runs through Ivar’s veins when he finally comes, pumping his seed inside his brother. His sight goes black, not truly knowing if he’s imagining stars dancing before him or them being the ones dotting the night sky. Whatever the case, he lets out a deep contented breath.

Something sticky between their bodies lets Ivar know that Sigurd has come too. The latter’s forehead is pressed to his collarbone, trying to catch his breath. Ivar's arm feels heavy as he wraps it around Sigurd’s back, a hand entwining itself in his soft blond hair. They find themselves hard once again after a while lying there in comfortable silence, but this second time they take it slow. Sigurd lets himself get fucked on his back, and Ivar is grateful for that, although they don’t kiss. He doesn’t think there would be a logical reason for that, but he’s simply not ready to acknowledge what it would mean if they did while they’re at it.

When the effect of the flower passes and Sigurd’s dilated pupils finally come back to normal, they make their way to the stream to wash up. The water is icy cold on their heated skins, but it serves to sober them up. Out of curiosity, Ivar takes a look at Sigurd’s marks when he has his back to him. Bites, nails, hickeys. It will make for a colorful picture tomorrow. Speaking of colorful, the flower is gone from the place Ivar guesses they had dropped it, probably washed away by the current.

They put on their clothes in silence, Ivar adjusting his crutches once again to his wrists. The sun is a blood-red blotch in the east when they step into Kattegat, but the town is still asleep. It wouldn’t do for anyone of their family to see them returning together, so Ivar tells Sigurd to go ahead. He does, but not before throwing him an odd look that far from giving Ivar a sense of shame from his brother, it is heavy with promise.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me or talk or whatever on my [tumblr](https://harsa.tumblr.com) I'm accepting requests! 💖
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked my fic 💖


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